The following years were spent on the road—cycling across the Balkans, trekking through the Scandinavian mountains, the British wilderness, and Himalayan trails. I climbed in the Alps, the Tatras, and the Caucasus.

Three years later, I reached the United States. I longed to visit places dedicated to Alexander von Humboldt and to test my climbing skills in Yosemite—a legendary destination in the climbing world.

I sent accommodation requests on Couchsurfing—a popular platform for travellers, where hosts offer a place to stay in exchange for shared time and travel stories. I received a response from a well-recommended host, who said that he would be hosting three travellers from Europe that night—two women and a man. He welcomed me to stay. I arrived at the given address near Venice Beach. The spacious apartment, with its white walls and ocean-view terrace, gave me a sense of ease.

That evening, the two women went out, only to return with tears in their eyes. One had twisted her ankle. They gathered their things and left for the hospital.

In the meantime, the host asked the male traveller to leave, suggesting he set up his tent on the beach. I didn’t understand what was happening. I didn’t want him to go. I asked if I could join him, but he refused, saying the beach was unsafe. I thought about the two women, who should have been returning from the hospital. I set my alarm for dawn and fell asleep. That is the last memory my mind has preserved in full.

The next fragment of my memory is of suddenly waking up, a man’s figure looming over me. I felt like a deeply rooted tree, silently screaming, frozen—though I had always imagined I would fight, that I would scream with all my might, that an unstoppable force would rise within me, and that, bloodied but free, I would run to the police. But instead, there was silence. My connection to reality faded, like a signal lost among desert dunes.

A mirror hung on the wall. I saw a face reflected in it, but I did not recognise myself.

That night, I was raped. That night, I was just trying to survive. I do not remember the touch of his hands. I abandoned my body and did not return to it for a long time. I took my belongings and left the apartment, but the Aleksandra I used to be remained in that distant bed overlooking the ocean.

The man who reached for me in my defenceless sleep sent me on the loneliest journey of my life—into a desert where I took root just to stay alive. I became empty and silent. The memories came later, along with the questions—where do I end, and where does the trauma begin? Is there a core of me that remains untouched by violence? Who would I be if not for the rape?